netless

I’m at the library to get some George Orwell essays. I recently read Down and Out in Paris and London and now I like him a lot lately.

At this time, the upstairs landlord has moved away and the Internet has been disconnected. I used his signal. Now in the Tiny Apartment things are very 20th century, with R and I reading books and writing longhand as we sit stranded in the weeds outside of the information highway.

I miss the convenience of looking up recipes, maps, email, and the weather report, but we’ve both been getting outside  more, and tackling better books. We even spent much of our recent days off writing letters to distant friends (pals in Edmonton, some fellow zinesters) and strangers (I mailed a note to Edna O’Brien).

We’ve spent a few nights roaming in old foundries and office buildings slated for tear-down. We’ve been taking walks with doctored hot chocolates in hand. I’m not saying this is all possible because of not having the Internet, but less time vanishes by ‘falling down the information hole,’ and it becomes more of a tangible thing to be contended with, and filled constructively.

Some chickadees ate out of my hand today, at Stanley Park. It was insane.